Indefinite
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Hardcastle hopes the end of the road isn't.


Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I make no profit from them.

Rated: K

**Author's note**: Cheri wrote a story called _Time's Up_ back in September of '04. It was Mark's thoughts on the day his parole finally ended. I reread it recently and was, once again, impressed by many threads of the relationship that she picked up and examined: trust--given and earned--change, security, freedom, and the deep-seated need to belong _somewhere_.

Here's my take on the flip side of the coin.

Thank you, Cheri, for finding the time to beta. Been a busy week, huh?

**Indefinite**

By L. M. Lewis

He hadn't had to ask where McCormick was going, but he wondered what the kid would've said if he had. Picking up some pool chemicals? That might have been the official reason, though that wouldn't have explained the tie and the sport coat.

But he hadn't asked. He'd just busied himself with some paperwork in the den, a stack of recent newspaper clippings and updated records. He'd tossed off a quick wave as Mark had passed by, heading for the door. Now Hardcastle was sitting, swiveled toward the front widow. The truck was gone. The Coyote sat in the drive.

_He'll be back_.

Of course he would; that was not the issue. It hadn't been for a long time, maybe right from the start. Hardcastle shook his head and smiled to himself. In retrospect all his original cautions and rules seemed fairly foolish, even though they'd fallen by the board in the first month or so of their unusual arrangement.

Looking back on it now, he realized that none of that would have kept him here— no, not even the threat of San Quentin—if he hadn't been willing to stay. Not that Mark would have risked a return to prison, just that he must've realized, from very early on, that it simply wasn't a _viable_ threat.

_That was never what kept him here._

There'd been only one thing that had held all of this together, back at the start, that'd been McCormick's agreeing to it. He was a man of his word.

March twenty-first. The first day of spring. Mark hadn't said anything about it, not before the thin but official-looking letter had arrived a week ago, and not since. Not that it mattered. The judge would hardly have failed to take note of the day. He had copies of everything that concerned McCormick in his file, including his sentencing and disposition information. Now he knew he was off to keep his final appointment with John Dalem—to be 'signed-off', dismissed from the parole system. And Mark still hadn't said a word.

_He'll be back, but it'll be different._

He wondered what it meant, all this uncharacteristic silence. A year ago, hell, even a month ago, he thought he could have guessed what the guy would do. What was McCormick always yakking on about? Wanting to be treated like an adult, having a real job, a 'grown-up car', not being a comic book sidekick.

And having his parole behind him would be step one toward all of that. So, why the silence now?

_He'll want to get on with his life. He just doesn't know how to say it._

Maybe racing. That weekend in Arizona a year ago hadn't merely been a fluke. The kid still had what it took. Heck, on the dirt-track racing circuit a little thing like a two-year stint for grand theft auto might be looked upon as a bit of street credibility. And he could make more money in a few weekends of racing than most people made in a year working nine-to-five. _And more in one day than he made in two-and-a-half years cleaning your pool._

Why would anyone pass that up to be Tonto? Especially when being the Lone Ranger's sidekick had come close to costing him his life on a couple of occasions. Hardcastle shook his head slowly again. Mark was pretty savvy. He had to know that that 'indefinite' part of the judicial stay concept he had thrown at him, way back at the beginning, had no legal bearing. They'd had some good times; hell, they'd accomplished a lot, but now the kid would want to move on.

_You ought to say something. Cut him loose; let him make up for some of that lost time._

Hardcastle frowned. There was still the matter of the silence. When had McCormick ever been at a loss for words? _What if . . ._ ? He allowed himself a glimmer of wishful thinking here. _Maybe . . . _Maybe what? That he'd want to go on, riding shotgun and cleaning the pool?

_Is that what you want for him?_

He frowned. The kid had choices to make. The trick would be to not make them for him. Give him some space and time . . ._ and maybe he'll decide to stay._

Hardcastle shook off the twinge of guilt and turned back to his desk, closing the folder that lay there and taking a solemn vow that there would be no coercion involved, no bribery, no emotional blackmail, and no pointed looks of disapproval. He stood up slowly, feeling a bit older than he had when he'd gotten out of bed this morning.

He tucked the folder under one arm and made his way downstairs. He paused for a moment near the bottom of the steps, remembering the time Mark had sat there and tried to talk him out of a blue funk over a wrongful conviction Hardcastle had felt responsible for. The irony of it.

No, it had been more than Mark's word that had held this thing together from very near the start, though having given his word might have been the official reason, if he'd ever been asked. In reality, it had been friendship, and an unshakable loyalty that had gotten them both through some pretty bad situations.

_And affection. Where the hell had that come from? The man ought to hate you. You sent him to prison._

Way back at the beginning, he'd told Mark he wasn't looking for them to be buddies, and he would have sworn he'd meant it. But how could you not like someone who'd risk going back to prison to avenge a friend, or to help an ex-cellmate out of a jam, _or to get you out of a Caribbean hellhole_? Wasn't it clear that prison was the only thing that really scared him? _And yet he walked back into Clarkville for you._

_Friendship, and affection, and loyalty. What was it you were going to teach him? _

_Right and wrong._ No, he'd known that already, too. It was only the gray area, where right runs afoul of 'legal', that was Mark's weak spot. _And I hope to God you didn't fix that too well. _

He sat down at the table, amid the file cabinets—two and a half years of work, more close calls than he cared to remember. And a good many of those hadn't even originated in these files. Mark had accused him of being the Lone Ranger, without ever realizing that he was himself doing an awfully good imitation of Don Quixote—fewer silver bullets, more tilting at windmills. _And anything to help a friend._

Hardcastle exhaled heavily. It was a dangerous world for people who thought like that. At the very least, it was a good idea to have someone to watch your back.

He leaned over and pulled open a drawer, and slowly set to filing.

00000

The sound of the truck door slamming, briefly startled him. He'd gotten himself distracted, as usual. A quick glance at his watch confirmed what he'd already known, that Mark had been doing more than a pool maintenance errand.

He got up wearily, closed the file he'd become immersed in, and mounted the stairs. Through the front door he could see McCormick off-loading a bag from the back of the truck. His tie and sport coat were gone; his sleeves were rolled up. He was smiling. He looked _happy_.

Hardcastle steeled himself and reached for the door, adjusting his expression to something he hoped was pleasant. Mark looked up at him, still smiling, as he opened the door.

"How'd it go?" Hardcastle asked, in a fairly neutral tone of voice.

"Okay," the smile wavered a moment. No one else would have noticed, but to the judge it was a subtle sign of nervousness. Then Mark forged ahead, as he hefted part of the load onto his shoulder. "They had a sale on chlorine tablets. Got two bags."

Hardcastle felt his eyebrows go up.

Mark gave a one-sided shrug. "Yeah, they'll last a while, but I figured we aren't gonna stop using them."

There was something so determinedly routine in the whole conversation that it bordered on the bizarre. _Not a word?_ _Five years of his life and he doesn't look back even for a moment? _

He pulled himself together, patently aware that he was not holding up his end of the rope, that his face and the silence were going to give it all away. He forced a small smile and a nod, but he couldn't for the life of him think of an appropriately inane thing to say.

Fortunately, Mark was a wellspring of the mundane, launching into a discussion of algaecides as he headed toward the steps.

"Won't be room in the pool shed for both bags," he'd interrupted himself. "Thought I'd put one of them in the basement for now."

Hardcastle held the door open for him and then followed him in, and to the stairs, and down. Mark found an empty shelf, deposited the bag, and turned back. "Don't let me forget where I put it." Then he looked through the doorway into the file room, where the light was still on and the file still sat on the table.

His smile broadened a bit. "Something up?" he inquired, almost hopefully.

"Oh," Hardcastle glanced over his shoulder, startled, "no," he shook his head hurriedly, "just sorting some things out."

"Oh." Mark echoed him, the smile drifting down a little wistfully. He lingered for a moment near the doorway, as if he was trying to think of an excuse to go in. The he let out what might have been a small sigh. "Well, something will turn up." He smiled again as he started up the stairs. "Always does," he added.

Hardcastle hadn't moved. He was still standing near the bottom of the steps, thinking he ought to say something, but was absolutely speechless in the face of an almost featureless wall of blank denial. _What the hell does he want you to say?_

_Maybe he doesn't want you to say anything._

Hardcastle was frowning, one hand on the banister. He looked up at the man at the top of the stairs . . . his friend. The frown lifted a little. _He shouldn't need an invitation to stay. He shouldn't need permission to leave._

_This is his home._

Mark had glanced down over his shoulder, looking a little puzzled. "You coming up?"

"Ah . . . yeah," Hardcastle finally found his voice, and an ordinary smile. "Just gotta turn the light off down here. Be up in a sec."

Puzzlement flashed briefly into relief and Mark passed through the door, out of sight. Hardcastle allowed himself a relieved exhalation of his own as he turned back to the file room.

_Give him some space . . . and some time. _

_We'll figure it out as we go along._


End file.
